


Hurricane

by cyphernaut



Series: Sick Day Universe [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Discipline, discussion of spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:36:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is feeling more comfortable playing in his younger headspace, until he isn't.</p><p>Set in the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/748790">Sick Day</a> universe, after that fic, but before <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/826378">Dramatics</a>. </p><p>Again, platonic kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I say four chapters, but that's a guess, not a commitment. I know what I want to say, but I'm not good and knowing how long it will take. Sorry!
> 
> Also, I names this something, then clicked and saw it was named the exact same thing as the fic posted right before it. Now I'm changing the name and unhappy with the new one. I may change again.

The sound of dull clattering below him pulled John out of a deep sleep, and he shoved a pillow over his head to dampen the noise. It was far too early to wake, especially considering that he had only gotten to bed at three in the morning, a consequence of a case that had culminated in a foot chase through the rainy streets of a warehouse district. When the clattering continued, he glanced at his mobile and groaned. It was six o'clock in the morning and Sherlock had apparently decided to rearrange their lounge. At least John hoped that he was merely rearranging the furniture, as that seemed the most innocuous explanation for the noise.

He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, then slowly padded down to the lounge, where he found every chair in the flat arranged in a neat row between the sofa and the kitchen table, just close enough for a person to easily hop from one to another. Sherlock perched on one in the centre, his unalloyed delight at finding John in the doorway clearly indicating that he'd gone young enough he didn't even realize he'd be in trouble.

“Sherlock, what...” He was too exhausted to form a proper question.

“I had to create safe passage through the sea!” Sherlock explained, chair teetering as he gesticulated wildly.

John sighed and wiped his hand over his face. Sherlock tended to go younger and more excitable when he was winding down from cases. It was usually a nice change, knowing he wouldn't have to deal with a sulk or a strop, but this was too much. “Go back to bed.”

“I don't have enough chairs to get there, and it's too dangerous to swim in my sea. Guess why!”

“What?” John blinked in confusion. Sherlock's energy was hitting him like a physical assault, and he struggled to orient himself.

“Guess why my sea is so dangerous, Daddy!”

“Because there are sharks,” he threw out, then mentally kicked himself for getting drawn into the fantasy.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the prospect that his sea would be threatened with something as mundane as sharks. “No, because it's a sea of acid! And guess the molarity!”

“Sherlock, that's enough,” John said firmly, pulling himself together and walking directly to where Sherlock bounced with excitement on the chair. “You know you're not allowed to stand on the furniture. Come down right now and get back to bed.”

“One thousand molar acid!” Sherlock announced, letting his hands fall to John's shoulders and then jumping down to land right in front of him. He kissed John's cheek, then grinned at him, blithely ignoring John's stern expression.

“All right, time for bed.”

“But I'm not tired.”

“Sherlock, you have had, at most, three hours of sleep tonight.”

“I had zero hours of sleep. I've been awake this whole time. I missed you.” Sherlock's arms snaked around John's waist, and he let his entire torso rest on John's. “John, will you make me eggs and soldiers for breakfast?”

Smiling at the transparent ploy, John returned Sherlock's kiss. As much as he was keen for Sherlock to catch up on his food intake after a case, he'd much rather be in bed. “When it's breakfast time, yes. Right now, we are going to sleep. Do you want to sleep in my bed or your own?”

“Yours,” Sherlock said quickly, before John rescinded the offer.

As they walked up the stairs, Sherlock took John's hand. “John, will you read me a story?”

“No, stories are for bedtime, not for the middle of the night when you are already supposed to be sleeping.”

Sherlock sighed and dragged a bit as they reached John's bedroom door. “But I wasn't little at bedtime.”

“That is unfortunate,” John agreed, leading Sherlock to the bed and turning down the duvet. “Get in.”

Sherlock obeyed, and John followed him into bed, pulling the duvet snugly around them and reaching out to rub softly at the base of Sherlock's neck.

“John, will you scratch my back?”

Slipping his hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, John ran his nails lightly over the bare skin of his back. Sherlock's breath began to deepen, and in the ensuing peace, John felt himself succumbing to his own fatigue.

* * *

When John woke, he was happy to see that Sherlock was still beside him in bed. He was not happy to see that instead of sleeping, Sherlock had taken John's smartphone and was scrolling through a web page.

“Sherlock,” he groaned.

“I was only looking at the news. See?” Sherlock turned the screen to him, and John took the phone from his hands, too tired to scold him for using it without permission.

“You're supposed to be sleeping.”

“I know, but I was bored, and I couldn't fall asleep, and you stopped scratching my back.”

“You can't fall asleep because you keep distracting yourself with other activities,” John told him, and Sherlock bit his lip. Looking at Sherlock's eyes, wide and forlorn in the face of John's disapproval, John decided he didn't care whether Sherlock's contrition was an act to get himself out of trouble. He sighed. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock lay down and rested his head on John's shoulder, curling into him, and John stroked down his back and kissed the crown of his head. They lay like that for a while, John breathing in the scent of Sherlock's hair and drifting around the edges of sleep until Sherlock broke the silence.

“Daddy, can I make you some coffee so you wake up with me?” he murmured into John's tee shirt.

“No, love, I want you to try to sleep.”

Nuzzling into John's shoulder, Sherlock shifted until he was almost lying on top of John. “But I tried very hard for a very long time.”

Turning to check the time, John considered his options. If he gave Sherlock a sedative, he might sleep, but he'd throw his sleep schedule completely off for the next few days. It was already eight o'clock, and as tired as John was, it didn't look like Sherlock was going to let him get any more sleep for the rest of the morning.

“All right, let's get up.”

Sherlock cheered and jumped to his feet, the mattress creaking ominously beneath his feet.

“No standing on the furniture,” John reminded, patting Sherlock's foot as he pushed himself to a sitting position.

“Sorry, Daddy!” Sherlock happily jumped up and landed on his bum, shaking the the entire bed to the point that John wondered whether the frame would hold. John pinched the bridge of his nose and gathered the strength to stand and slip on his dressing gown. He grabbed Sherlock's as well, turning around just in time to have Sherlock grab him around the waist.

“I said I'm sorry, Daddy,” Sherlock reminded him. “You have to hug me.”

John readily complied, then helped Sherlock into his dressing gown and started to direct him downstairs.

“John, you promised to make eggs and soldiers for me, remember?”

Humming his assent, John stepped off the landing to see the disaster that Sherlock had made of the lounge overnight. He ignored it, heading toward the kitchen to make Sherlock the eggs and soldiers he'd asked for. John would be having coffee and paracetamol for breakfast.

* * *

“John, do you want me to play you a song I wrote while you work?”

John looked up from his laptop to see Sherlock standing before him, violin in hand, shifting excitedly from foot to foot. He was dressed now at least, the result of a twenty minute circus precipitated by Sherlock's enthusiastic “help” with the washing up. Their soaked pyjamas hung in the kitchen to dry, despite Sherlock's insistence that they would dry faster if worn, warmed by the heat of their bodies. To his credit, Sherlock _had_ actually set the lounge to rights whilst John made breakfast, and his eagerness to please was endearing, if exhausting.

“I'd love to hear a short song,” he answered, “but then I need to get back to work.”

“You can work while I play it,” Sherlock said, and he started to saw out a frenetic tune that left John's sleep deprived and caffeine riddled brain reeling. After a whirlwind finish, he dropped the bow and stared wild-eyed and expectant at John.

“That was wonderful,” John praised, and Sherlock gave a happy bow.

“Do you want me to play another one?”

“Not now, love. Why don't you read your newspapers?”

Abandoning the violin and running to the coffee table, Sherlock rustled through the papers. “Do you want me to read them to you?”

“No, love. I need to work.”

Sherlock raced back to John, this time grabbing a chair and setting himself up within view of the computer. “I'll help you.”

When Sherlock grabbed for the laptop, John closed it and held on firmly. “Sherlock,” he started to scold him, then paused as Sherlock cut him off with a kiss on the cheek. With Sherlock grinning at him, John felt like a giant ass for getting irritated at his excessive solicitousness. He rested a calming hand on Sherlock's cheek. “I'm going to bring my laptop to the sofa, and you can look through the newspapers and cut out anything that might be important. After you're finished with all of them, we can go over them together.”

“Okay, Daddy, and can we order dumplings from Mandarin Garden for lunch?”

“Yes,” he agreed, then added for good measure, “if you let me work.”

They settled into the sofa, Sherlock squirming further into John's side at every opportunity. After fifteen minutes, he was sitting on his heels and clutching at John's jumper while he rested his entire upper body on John's. John was valiantly trying to work, with little success.

“Daddy, I'm sleepy,” he said plaintively. “Will you read me a story?”

John turned to look at him, incredulous and more than a little irritated. “Are you-”

He was cut off by the sound of Sherlock's text alert, which immediately jolted Sherlock back into high gear. 

“Maybe it's Lestrade and we have another case!” he squealed, jumping to his feet and starting to take a short cut over the coffee table.

“Sherlock, get off-” John started, but gave up when Sherlock used the table to vault himself halfway across the lounge in pursuit of his phone.

Grabbing the phone from the table, Sherlock's thumbs flew expertly over the screen. As he frowned at what he saw, his bright energy seemed to close in on itself like an imploding star. He flung the phone onto the table and flopped himself into an armchair.

“What was that?” John asked, and Sherlock glared at him, ready to release his anger on anyone present, deserving or not.

“Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed (and barely edited), but I wanted to post today.

John used his chopsticks to poke a hole in his last dumpling before immersing it in the sauce. He popped it in his mouth and frowned at Sherlock's untouched plate. Sherlock had been a right brat since Mycroft's text, and John wouldn't put it past him to refuse to eat just to wind John up. 

“You'd best eat those before they get cold,” John chided him.

“I'm not hungry.” Sherlock stared coldly across the table, baiting John into an argument. Instead of his usual practice of isolating himself when upset, Sherlock had been doing his best to provoke a confrontation for the past two hours, artfully skirting the edge of the outright defiance that would get him punished.

“I know, love, but sometimes you don't feel hungry until you eat a bite.”

“I don't like them.”

John tapped his fingers on the table in exasperation. “Sherlock, I got you exactly what you asked for.”

“You did not get me 'exactly' what I asked for. I wanted _fried_ dumplings.”

“Unfortunately, you didn't specify, and I ordered steamed.” Sherlock glowered mulishly at the dumplings that had the audacity to be prepared in a less than ideal way. He'd already tried to leave the table twice, and John doubted he'd make that mistake again, but he was determined to make John pay for every second he spent there. John forced himself to soften his voice. “You've eaten them before and liked them. Just try one, and then you can go.”

“I don't want one,” he pouted, stamping his feet on the lino. “If you force me to eat when I don't want to, I'll develop an unhealthy relationship with food. You should know that. It's in your browser history.”

John ignored the attempted derailment of the conversation into Sherlock's continued unauthorized use of John's computer. “You already have an unhealthy relationship with food, which is why you don't know when you're hungry.”

“Oh, yes, John, why don't you explain to me how I feel?” Sherlock asked snidely. “I think that would be a very productive use of our time. Your deductions are always so illuminating.”

“That's enough!” John snapped, and Sherlock pulled back, startled by the sharp tone. “I'm very sorry that whatever your brother wrote upset you-”

“He's not my brother when I'm little! He's just an annoying man who texts me far too often.”

“I'm sorry Mycroft's text upset you, but that does not give you license to be rude and disrespectful to me. Is that clear?” Sherlock traced the edge of the table with his finger, pointedly ignoring the lecture, and John prodded, “Sherlock?”

When Sherlock at last gave what could have been interpreted as a nod, John took what he could get. “Thank you.” He dipped one of Sherlock's dumplings in the sauce and set it back on his plate. “Now, eat this, and you may leave the table.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock picked up his chopsticks and stabbed the dumpling. He stared at John as he brought it to his lips, opened his mouth, then flung it across the kitchen.

“What the _hell_?” John stood, dumbfounded, and watched the dumpling skitter across the lino, leaving a trail of sauce in its wake. He turned back to Sherlock, who was regarding him with genuine fear in his eyes. This was new territory for both of them. “Pick it up, and put it in the bin,” he commanded, and Sherlock dropped his eyes.

“No.”

“What was that?”

“No,” Sherlock repeated, his voice breaking as he blinked back tears.

John squatted down beside him, once again chagrined by how Sherlock could be such an obnoxious brat one second and regain John's sympathy with just a brief flutter of his eyelashes then next. “Sherlock...”

“No! No! _No_!”

“All right,” John said, standing and shaking his head. “That's that, then.” He took Sherlock's arm and led him up and across the kitchen, ignoring Sherlock's weak protests as they approached the staircase. “Sit down, please.”

Sherlock sat, teeth grit and breathing heavily through his nose. He refused to look up as John addressed him. “I'll be back in five minutes, and I hope we'll be able to talk then.”

“I hope you'll shut it and leave me alone.”

Having been baited enough for one day, John spun on his heels and walked back to the kitchen. As he cleaned the mess from the floor and started to clear the table, it didn't escape him that Sherlock had gotten exactly what he'd wanted, leaving the table without having eaten anything. John regretting having been pulled into Sherlock's foul mood at all, let alone engaging in a ridiculous power struggle with him. He pulled out his phone.

_Sherlock just threw the lunch I provided across the room and then told me to 'shut it'._

Within a minute, his text alert sounded.

_You should feel honoured he's so secure in your love for him. ;)_

John laughed, then winced when he heard indignant noises from the staircase.

_I'll try to keep that in mind._

Heartened, he continued to tidy the kitchen until he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. As certain as he was that Sherlock would not have left the flat, he rushed to the stairs. 

Sherlock stood staring down the staircase, flushing as his older brother appeared on the landing below them. He was frozen, clearly unwilling to take any action that might reveal the headspace he was caught in. Mycroft's eyes flicked from Sherlock to John, keenly assessing the situation. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips, and he continued his ascent.

“Ah, John. I was hoping to speak to you about a case.” Mycroft swept past his brother and let himself into the kitchen, dropping a file on the table. “Of course my little brother is stubbornly pretending to be uninterested because he's in a mood, but when he's ready to act like an adult, please share this with him. I'm sure he'll find the entire matter fascinating.”

John's breath stopped at Mycroft's choice of words, and he was sure that it didn't go unnoticed. Sherlock stood in the doorway watching the scene with an ominous mixture of humiliation and rage. He was ready to strop, and only his fear of exposure was keeping him from doing so. When the tension became too much, he stomped to his room and slammed the door behind him.

“He does love to storm in and out, doesn't he?” Mycroft's voice layered a pleasant veneer over his disapproval. “He was like this as a child as well. Our parents never knew what to do with him.” He glanced at the bedroom door, and John was certain that he intended Sherlock to hear every word. “You seem to have better luck with him, though.”

“This is really not a good time,” John said, hoping for the discordant sound of Sherlock's violin, or something to indicate he wasn't listening in on the conversation,

“Of course. I don't want to interfere in any arrangement the two of you may have.” Mycroft walked to the door, then turned around, eyebrows raised as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Come to think of it, my brother always did respond well to a good thrashing.”

In lieu of responding, John buried himself in the file until Mycroft left, eyes trailing across the pages without seeing anything on them. He could only hope that Sherlock hadn't heard what his brother had said.

Shortly after, when the sound of a full blown strop filtered through the bedroom door, that hope was destroyed.

* * *

The smell of sesame oil permeated the flat as John turned the dumplings over in the pan. It had been fifteen minutes since Sherlock had calmed down, but he wasn't yet willing to allow John into his room. John had given up after the third time Sherlock had shouted at him to go away.

Soon enough, the door opened and Sherlock shuffled out, staring at the floor as he approached. “What are you doing?”

“I'm frying up the dumplings for you.”

Sherlock's eyes swept from the floor to the pan and then up to John's face, and he promptly burst into tears. “Why?”

John turned off the hob and pulled Sherlock in for a hug. “It certainly wasn't to make you cry. Did you still want some fried dumplings?”

Sherlock nodded, sniffling into John's shoulder, and John gently guided him to a chair. He put the dumplings on a fresh plate and pulled out another set of chopsticks from the takeaway bag, then put it all in front of Sherlock. Sherlock picked up the chopsticks, then, almost as an afterthought, shoved the file Mycroft had left them onto the floor. John picked it up and put it on a shelf in the lounge, where it would be out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Sherlock had already eaten half the dumplings.

“Do you like them?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I told you I like _fried_ dumplings.”

“Yes, you did,” John agreed, dropping a kiss on the top of Sherlock's head. “And were you hungry once you started eating?”

Sherlock's shrug was as close as he would get to an admission that John was right, and John smiled and slid into a chair beside him. “What do you want to do for the rest of the day?”

Sherlock shrugged again, and John started to get worried. “I think we might need to talk about what happened today.”

“I'm not going back to the naughty step,” Sherlock pronounced, scowling around his last dumpling.

“It's just a talk, love.”

Sherlock dipped his chopsticks in the sauce and started to trail a design across his plate. It was vaguely familiar, though John couldn't quite place it. “I don't feel like talking right now. I'd like to watch some telly. With you. Please.”

John paused, unsure whether Sherlock really didn't want to talk or rather wanted John to prise the information out of him. After a few seconds, Sherlock met his eyes, uncharacteristically meek in the wake of all that had happened.

“Please,” he repeated, and John sighed.

“Yeah, we can do that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had some health issues, but I've started writing again. Thanks to everyone for the sweet comments and the kudos. I appreciate your taking time to respond. This is the last chapter, and I may have lost my centre a bit after such a long absence, but I hope you still enjoy.

They cuddled together on the sofa, their third such session of the day, and the first for which John had insisted that they keep the telly off. Consequently, it was also the first for which Sherlock dozed on and off, rather than shout at the inconsistencies on the screen. John used the rare moments of inactivity to reflect on their day. 

Both of them had been compromised from lack of sleep, but John was hesitant to write Sherlock's extreme reaction off to exhaustion, and they still hadn't spoken of it, though Sherlock had seemed close several times. The day was almost over, and he hoped that a sleepy Sherlock would translate into a pliant Sherlock, rather than a stroppy one. He rubbed the back of his boy's neck, and Sherlock nuzzled into him.

“I don't,” Sherlock pouted, his eyes closed.

“Don't what?” John asked.

“Respond well to a thrashing,” he said into John's shoulder.

John continued his soft ministrations. “I can't imagine you would.”

“You've imagined it, then,” Sherlock mused. “Thrashing me.”

“I-” John faltered, then sat them both up so he could look at Sherlock's face, even as Sherlock tried to avoid his gaze. “When we first wrote up the contract, you wanted physical discipline included. Is that something you want to renegotiate?”

Sherlock hugged his knees and frowned. “You only listen to me about the contract when I'm big.”

“That's not true, love. You aren't allowed to argue your way out of following the rules, but I listen to you.” When Sherlock didn't respond, John pressed him further, “Did you want to take physical discipline out of the contract?”

“I don't want you to cane me, even if I'm very naughty. No matter what I do,” Sherlock demanded, his chin jutting out as he challenged John with his posture.

“Okay,” John nodded.

“Even if I tell you to when I'm big.”

John fixed Sherlock with a firm stare. “It's not fair for you to negotiate one thing when you're big and another when you're little. You know I'm supposed to listen to you when you're big about these things.”

“But _you_ know that I lie when I'm big and don't tell you what I want,” Sherlock retorted.

It was true. Sherlock as an adult was constantly building an emotional obstacle course for John to navigate through, and sometimes the only way John made it out in one piece was using his younger counterpart as guide. Sherlock was the single most dysfunctional person John had ever been in a relationship with, and sometimes the normal rules didn't apply. John hoped that wasn't just an excuse to engage in unethical behaviour.

Sighing, John pulled Sherlock close, kissing the shell of his ear. “I promise I won't cane you, Sherlock, and we can talk about everything else when you're big. For now, I want you to trust that I'll do what's best for you.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he leaned further into John. “I just want to know what you're going to do to me.”

“I would never hurt you.”

“Your father smacked you when you were little,” Sherlock observed, and John didn't even want to think about how Sherlock had deduced that fact. Probably from John's choice of shoelaces or something equally nonsensical.

“That was a different time, love. It doesn't have anything to do with us, just like Mycroft's opinion doesn't have anything to do with us.”

“You were talking to him about me.”

John lifted Sherlock's chin so they could meet eye to eye. “Sherlock, he said something to me, and I asked him to leave the flat. I would never discuss you with Mycroft like that.”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly placated by John's words. He lay back down in John's lap and turned onto his stomach, a clear sign that John was to rub his back while he rested. John obliged. “My good boy.”

“I wasn't good today.”

“You had a difficult morning, but it's over now, and we had a great afternoon. I appreciate your help with my blog, by the way.”

Wrapping his arm around John's knee, Sherlock was the very picture of childish anxiety. As ready as he was to defend and rationalise his misbehaviour, he never knew quite what to do with John's forgiveness and praise. 

“My good boy,” John repeated, and Sherlock hid his face in John's lap. His breathing began to deepen, and John glanced at the clock. “Time for bed, love.”

“But it's barely eight o'clock!” Sherlock protested, suddenly more awake than he'd been for the past three hours.

“And that's today's bedtime.”

Sherlock reluctantly pushed himself up from the sofa and wavered at John's side, torn between his need for affection and his desire to communicate his resentment of the early bedtime. John took the choice from him, grabbing him up in a tight hug and kissing his cheek.

“Get ready for bed, and I'll be in to kiss you good night.”

* * *

A kiss good night had turned into three stories and a twenty minute cuddle in Sherlock's bed. It was worth it, though, when Sherlock finally settled into sleep. John waited a few minutes and then carefully unwrapped himself from Sherlock's torso. Between the aftermath of the case and that of Mycroft's visit, John had barely been able to get any work done whilst managing Sherlock's erratic behaviour.

He was six minutes into writing up the case when he heard footsteps in the kitchen. “Sherlock, you're supposed to be in bed.”

“John.” The irritated condescension in Sherlock's voice was startling after the entire day of dealing with him in his younger headspace.

“You aged back up?”

“Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes and went back to work. Adult or no, Sherlock needed his rest, but John wasn't going to waste his breath arguing about it. If Sherlock wanted to age back up just to refuse to attend to his body's needs, that was his own prerogative.

Even if John _had_ just spent over half an hour lulling him to sleep.

“John, I know I can be difficult.”

It was a rare moment of self-awareness, and John turned from his laptop. Sherlock looked almost nervous, or as close as he got as an adult. His hands grasped at the edge of his dressing gown as he studied the patterning on the wallpaper. 

John gave him a noncommittal nod. “Okay.”

“So far, you've used very few of the options that I left open for you in the contract, for reasons of your own.”

“And I still have those reasons.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock continued to stare anywhere but at John's face. “Nevertheless, if you find the situation too overwhelming, corporal punishment is an option.”

If anything, the awkward conversation was making John even less likely to use any form of physical discipline in the future. Sherlock's insistence disturbed him, especially in light of his anxiety when he had been little. If it were something sexual, John would have understood, but their play had gone so much further than anything John had done before. He had come to realize that he was raising a part of Sherlock in a very real, if unconventional, way. The tension between the two headspaces wasn't a form of consent play, and it needed to be resolved, for Sherlock's sake. “Are you suggesting it as a way to change your behaviour or as catharsis for me?”

“Presumably the latter, as I highly doubt it will improve my behaviour.”

“It sounds like you're saying that you'd rather I beat you than leave you.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying,” Sherlock agreed, his entire body loosening with relief.

“I see.”

“Then you agree.”

John most certainly did not agree. The idea of beating Sherlock as a form of stress relief was so beyond the realm of acceptable behaviour that John didn't know where to start, even if Sherlock was the cause of said stress. “If it comes up, we'll discuss it.”

“You're intentionally misleading me,” Sherlock frowned. “You don't believe you'd ever be pushed to the point that you'd need to decide between beating and leaving me, so you don't feel the need to imagine a realistic choice.”

“Sherlock, I'm not going to make promises about a hypothetical situation that I can't imagine occurring.”

“If you honestly believe that there's no chance the situation would ever occur, then there's no harm in making a promise about your behaviour if it does. You'd never need to honour the promise at all. It's simple logic. Even with your reasoning skills, you should be able to puzzle it out.”

“I'll not promise to beat you under any circumstances.” John used the same stern voice that cowed Sherlock when he was little, and even adult Sherlock seemed to contract slightly under John's self-appointed authority. “The conversation is over.”

“There's no reason-”

“The conversation is _over_ ,” he repeated. “Now, can you please age down for a bit so we can talk about this?”

“So you can use the threat of punishment to force me to acquiesce? I think not.”

“So I can reassure you that I won't leave you!” John snapped, then took a deep breath. “I'm not forcing you into anything. I have limits, too, and I would appreciate it if you respected them, as I respect yours.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long, mutinous moment, then turned away and stalked back to his bedroom, his dressing gown swirling dramatically behind him.

John followed and found Sherlock sitting up against the headboard, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He sat down on the bed and waited for any acknowledgement of his presence. When none was forthcoming, he lay a hand on Sherlock's arm.

“Things have been going very well for us, and I'd rather not change anything.”

“Why? What could you possibly gain from this arrangement?”

“Are you joking?” John gaped. The man had to be the most idiotic genius John had ever met. “Sherlock, I like spending time with you! I like looking after you because I care about you.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock stated dubiously.

“Yes, I'm sentimentally attached to you, and I happen to like the fact that you seem to share that affection when you're little. Believe it or not, the idea of hitting you is unappealing to me.”

“Fine.” Sherlock glared into the distance, and John laughed. Only Sherlock could be angry that someone cared for him. John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a one-sided hug, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's discomfort.

“What are you doing, John? I'm not little now.”

John only held tighter. “I'm hugging you, and I don't care.”

* * *

“Daddy, wake up!”

Opening his eyes just long enough to see that it was only half five, John pulled the pillow over his head for the second morning in a row. This time, however, Sherlock simply pulled it off and threw it to the side.

“No, Daddy. It's time to wake up, and guess what!”

“Hm,” John groaned out a passable level of interest.

“I slept almost nine hours!” Sherlock bounced beside him in excitement. “That's even one more than you always tell me.”

The flaw in John's early bedtime strategy was becoming starkly apparent, and he reached out to settle Sherlock from shaking the bed.

“And Daddy, guess what else! I'm going to be good for the whole day!”

“That's wonderful, love.” He gave Sherlock's leg a reassuring pat. “Let Daddy sleep a little while longer.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Sherlock agreed, and to John's surprise, he was true to his word, cuddling close and still in John's embrace. Biting his lip slightly, Sherlock almost managed to mask the contented smile that teased across his lips.

“That's my good boy,” John murmured, and for the first time, he thought Sherlock just might believe him.


End file.
